


This Dark Room

by I_am_lampy



Series: Open Your Eyes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Fix-It, John is a Mess, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Self-Hatred, Situational Humiliation, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 10:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10807710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: John thinks that if he had been a better friend or a better man or a braver man, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. Maybe if John had told Sherlock he was in love with him then Sherlock would have felt he had something to live for, even if it was just to mock John for being enslaved by sentiment. Maybe if John had been the kind of man worth living for even when you felt like dying then Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. He would have come home and he would have talked about it with John and they would've figured it out together.





	This Dark Room

>   **Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine and we'll walk from this dark room for the last time.**  - "Open Your Eyes" by Snow Patrol 

 

* * *

 

_John is standing by himself on the street watching Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. John watches as Sherlock falls._

_John sees Sherlock's body on the pavement. He sees the blood. He touches Sherlock's wrist. There's no pulse but if everyone would get out of the way, he could take Sherlock's pulse properly. Maybe Sherlock just has a weak pulse and if he could hold onto his wrist long enough he could tell them Sherlock is alive. The medics are pushing John away. John kneels outside the circle and watches as they put Sherlock on a stretcher and hurry him away. They go through the door to the morgue._ Poor Molly, _John thinks._

_The people disperse. John tries to get to his feet. His head hurts and his hands and elbows are scraped from his accident with the bicycle. John kneels on the sidewalk and stares at Sherlock's blood. Sherlock is dead. He gets to his feet. Sherlock's blood is on the toe of his left shoe._

_He walks down the street. He forgets how to get home. He can't organize his thoughts. This is what it was like when he was shot. If someone had asked John how bad the pain was when he got shot, he would have described it as exquisite. It's the kind of pain that forces your brain to dump endorphins in your body. It leaves you feeling numb and stupid. It's not unbearable because you bear it or you go into shock. Or you die._

_John gets in a taxi and goes home. He takes his socks and shoes off. The toe of his left shoe has blood on it. He looks at it. He puts the shoe down on the coffee table. He picks it up again and thinks about taking it to the kitchen and cleaning it but he wants to keep Sherlock's blood on his shoe. He's not ready to wipe it off yet. He puts the shoe back down on the coffee table. He doesn't know where the other shoe is but that's okay for now._

_He sits down in his chair and stares at Sherlock's chair but he's not really looking at the chair. He's looking at Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. He watches Sherlock fall and then he watches him fall again. His mind starts adding in extra details – the fear Sherlock must've felt as he fell. The sound his body would have made when it hit the ground._

_He mostly feels numb and that stumbling stupidity that he had when he got shot. He's confused. Nothing makes sense but that's okay. He's grateful for it right now. He's not ready to feel anything. He's tired. He wants to sleep but he's afraid he'll wake up and the numbness will have gone away._

_He stands up. He knows where he's going but he's not going to think about why just yet. He walks through the kitchen and into the little hallway and then into Sherlock's bedroom. The bed is unmade. There's a ping pong ball in the middle of the bed. He laughs but it's just a whisper, one puff of breath. He picks it up and sits on the edge of the bed._

_Sherlock hardly spent any time in here except to sleep, which he only did rarely, and to dress. Okay – he did spend a lot of time dressing. John used to chide him for his vanity. John stands back up and puts the ping pong ball in his pocket. He walks to Sherlock's wardrobe and opens it. There's a bag from the cleaners that John picked up for him yesterday. Sherlock asked him to pick it up. It doesn't make sense for Sherlock to ask John to pick up his dry cleaning when he knows he's going to kill himself the next day._

_But nothing makes sense right now so John lets his eyes slide away. He runs a hand over one of Sherlock's shirts. He's wanted to do that for a long time. He pretends he can feel the heat of Sherlock's body underneath the shirt. John watches Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's again. He slams the wardrobe shut._

_He takes a deep breath and then takes out his wallet and his phone and his keys and the ping pong ball and puts them on the settee next to Sherlock's wardrobe. He avoids looking in the mirror. He takes off his jeans and folds them neatly and puts them on top of his things. He unbuttons his shirt and then his cuffs and shrugs out of his shirt. He tries to fold it neatly but he's always hated trying to fold long sleeve shirts. He usually hangs them up. In the end he folds it in half and lays it over the arm of the settee._

_He's in his t-shirt and underwear. He looks at Sherlock's bed. He walks over to it and he sits down. He doesn't know how long he sits there. Finally he lays down. He puts his face into the pillow and takes a deep breath. It smells a little like Sherlock but the truth is he doesn't really know what Sherlock smells like up close. For now it's enough just to lay his head where Sherlock's head has been. He lays there and he pretends that Sherlock is laying there with him and wonders why he waited until Sherlock was dead to have a fantasy about going to bed with him. He's an idiot. He could've been having all kinds of sex with Sherlock in his fantasies. Why did he wait?_

_He pulls off his t-shirt and throws it on the floor. Next he pulls off his pants and throws them on the floor, too. He's laying naked in Sherlock's bed and even though Sherlock isn't here with him and even though Sherlock will never be here with him, he allows himself this one chance just to pretend. There's nothing wrong with pretending right now. Sherlock's only been dead a few hours. Who will blame John for wanting to hold onto him a little longer?_

_What he does next will stay with him for years. Sometimes he will think about it and the shame he feels when he does think about will threaten to choke him._

_He pretends Sherlock is lying in bed next to him. He's on his side facing John with his head propped in his hand and he's smiling. His eyes are warm and a little bit mischievous and very, very sexy. Sherlock is wearing a dress shirt and trousers. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone. It's a little weird that Sherlock's fully dressed and John is naked but this is a fantasy so John just goes with it._

_Sherlock's hand reaches for John's shoulder. He slides two fingers from John's shoulder to his hand, which is resting on his hip. Then Sherlock's palm settles at the small of John's back and he pulls John close to him. He kisses John and the longing John feels is so strong that his stomach rolls and he thinks he might throw up. He gasps for air. In his fantasy, Sherlock pulls away and his eyebrows come together in puzzled concern but he doesn't say anything._

_When the nausea passes, Sherlock smiles again, that little half smile. That smirk. Sherlock traces his fingers over John's chest but the whole time he touches John he never looks away from John's eyes. His hand trails down John's stomach and his smile changes. It almost disappears but John can still see the smile in his eyes. It's bold and intense and wicked. John knows this is only how he imagines Sherlock would look if they have – could have, didn't have – sex. It looks good on Sherlock. John thinks about the blood on the toe of his left shoe but then Sherlock's hand wraps around John's cock and John stops thinking and lets himself just feel. He closes his eyes but he hears Sherlock say_ open your eyes, John _so John opens his eyes. Sherlock watches John with his wicked eyes while he gets John off with his hand. When John comes, Sherlock's eyes open up wide, pretending to be scandalized. John laughs, his body limp and relaxed._

_He tries to put his arm around Sherlock but he ends up face down on the bed. Of course he knew Sherlock wasn't really here but he thought he could pretend a little longer. He's crying and his cheeks are wet and his hand is wet because he has just masturbated in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock has been dead less than two hours and John has used that time to have a wank in his bed. He wipes his hand on the place where Sherlock was lying. He can't look at the wet spot because the shame overwhelms him._

_He lays in Sherlock's bed and he cries and hates himself for it. He's pathetic. He had plenty of valid reasons not to tell Sherlock he was in love with him. Sherlock wasn't interested in romance so telling him would've just made things awkward. John was confused about his sexuality – was he bisexual or was Sherlock the only man he would ever be attracted to? Mostly he never said anything because there's nothing more pathetic than unrequited love, especially when you live with the person who's failing to requite your love. He thought he would have time to figure it out. He thought_ they _would have time to figure it out. How could he have predicted that Sherlock would jump off of the roof of St. Fucking Bart's?_

_John thinks that if he had been a better friend or a better man or a braver man, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. Maybe if John had told Sherlock he was in love with him then Sherlock would have felt he had something to live for, even if it was just to mock John for being enslaved by sentiment. Maybe if John had been the kind of man worth living for even when you felt like dying then Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. He would have come home and he would have talked about it with John and they would've figured it out together._

_Although he can't help but wonder what Sherlock would've thought if he could see John having a wank in his bed. What kind of fucked up person does that anyway?_

 

* * *

 

John went to the bathroom and came back with a damp face flannel for the two of them. He felt that maybe everything would be okay. Maybe not easy but not shit, either. He looked down at Sherlock, who was sprawled out on the bed like a toddler.

"Hey, you," John said and crawled into bed next to Sherlock.

"When does Rosie need to be picked up?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at his watch.

"An hour," John said and Sherlock groaned in disappointment.

John wiped himself off and passed the damp flannel off to Sherlock who made a half-hearted swipe at the semen on his belly and then tossed the rag somewhere over in the far corner of his bedroom. Then he turned over onto his side and propped his head in his hand and gave John a wicked grin.

"I think Mrs. Hudson should pick her up. What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

He reached out and trailed two fingers down John's arm. John looked at him and froze.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, raising one of his eyebrows in puzzlement.

"The day you died, I had a wank in your bed," John said out of the blue.

"Okay," Sherlock said, smiling like John was telling a joke.

"The day you faked your death, I came back here to the flat and I sat in my chair for a bit, but I just kept seeing you fall over and over again." The pain of that day juxtaposed with the joy of lying here next to a Sherlock who wasn't dead was overwhelming him. Shame bubbled up, hot and brutal. "So I got up and I came in here and I touched your clothes and I buried my head in your pillow and I masturbated. I pretended you were the one touching me."

Sherlock laid a gentle hand on John's arm but John shook his his head violently. His skin felt too tight. He wanted to run away. He was shaking so hard that he felt like he was shaking apart.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

John buried his face in his hands and tried not to make any noise but a moan slipped past his lips.

Sherlock's hands clamped around John's wrists and pulled. John fought him.

"You're frightening me, John," Sherlock said. John heard the alarm in his voice but he was just trying not to fall apart.

Sherlock managed to manhandle John's hands away from his eyes but John still wouldn't look at him.

"Please, John," Sherlock said. John heard the tremulousness in his voice.

"I'm so ashamed," John whispered.

"Will you please – I would like to comfort you. Will you let me lie closer to you?"

John nodded and Sherlock slipped closer, carefully, like he was approaching an animal who might at any moment reach out and bite him. Hesitantly, he pulled John up against him and tucked John's head under his chin.

"I'm not the man you think I am, Sherlock. I'm not a good man. When I thought you were dead I – there were things I did. Bad things. You think I'm a good man, but I'm not."

"John, I can't imagine you would tell me anything that would change how I feel about you. Just tell me."

"I can't," John whispered and pressed his face into Sherlock's collarbone.

"My powers of observation are superior to everyone I have met in my life save my siblings. If you were a bad man, do you honestly think I wouldn't see it?"

"I have to go get Rosie," John said and pulled himself out of Sherlock's arms, ignoring the strangled sound Sherlock made – part indignation, part loss.

John got out of bed and sorted through the clothes on the floor to find his own. He put them on quickly without looking at Sherlock. Neither of them said anything. John found his wallet and his phone on opposite ends of the bedroom. His keys were under the bed. He was surprised to find himself remembering the ping pong ball he found on Sherlock's bed the day he thought Sherlock had died. He had no idea what had happened to it.

"Will you – " Sherlock began and stopped.

"I've got a shift at the surgery down the road from my flat tomorrow so it'll be an early night for us tonight," John said, trying to make his voice sound lighthearted but it just ended up sounding rushed.

"Right," Sherlock said.

John heard him get out of bed and the closer Sherlock got the harder it was for John not to run out the door. Sherlock's arms circled around him from behind and he pulled John flush against his chest.

"I don't know what I'm doing either, John. Whatever it is you think you've done, I assure you I have done something equally bad and possibly worse." Sherlock put his chin on John's shoulder and John felt like he'd been wrapped up in a Sherlock blanket. Sherlock was probably a bed hog. _Exactly_ like a toddler.

"I don't want to get hurt again," John said quietly. The words came out of him slowly. He would stop suddenly and then more words would come out in a rush. "I'm ashamed of what I did after you – when I thought you were dead. Until I met Mary, I was – I know you think it won't matter. But it might. I can't – I'm afraid. I'm afraid that you'll leave or die or someone will hit you over the head with a blunt object and you'll end up in a coma."

He could feel Sherlock's lips grinning against his temple.

"Will you answer one question for me?" Sherlock whispered.

It took John a moment to respond. He nodded his head.

"Are you in love with me?"

"Of course I'm in love with you," John huffed.

"Then we're in agreement on that at least," Sherlock said. "It's a start."

Sherlock kissed his cheek and gave him a little nudge. John walked out of the bedroom and halfway through the kitchen before he realized Sherlock hadn't followed him.

"Are you coming out here?" he yelled.

"Nope!" Sherlock yelled back. "My pillow smells like you. I think I might shag it."

John laughed his quiet laugh.

"Listen, uh – I was thinking maybe tomorrow we could come by?"

"Yes, please. I'm afraid my pillow doesn't stand a chance otherwise!"

**Author's Note:**

> I always welcome emails from readers about anything that tickles your fancy, even if it's just randomness!
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com  
> Teddy


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